by April Smith
Under pressure, Rooney was working the graveyard shift. On a scarred desk in the faceless JR Trading Company, in the midst of the displaced Hispanic nation, he set out rows of shiny rocks, ranging in quality from the real stuff to the Brazilian counterfeits. He knew they were melting authentic gold and mixing it with water and sand — but how much of each? His notes say he sectioned a Brazilian nugget and examined the slices under the microscope at fifty times normal magnification.
Skimming the phone log attached to the lab records, Donnato sees that a call came in on Rooney’s private line that morning at 5:48 a.m.
From an area code in Oregon.
Rooney had probably been counting gold globules when he decided to take a break and work on one of his subversive little projects that turned up later — a digitalized photo of himself shaking hands with President Bill Clinton. It was another phony, but at least it was his phony, which is why, when the phone rang, he was in a bad mood about being interrupted and answered with annoyance, which he would immediately regret.
All calls to the off-site are recorded in the archives. You just have to lean on the right person.
“City morgue, George Romero speaking.” “Hey there, champ.”
It was the voice of Dick Stone.
Rooney reacted with silence. Stone: “Is this phone secure?” “Not entirely.” Rooney was testy. “But it’s six in the morning. Nobody’s here. Just me and the skeletons in the closet. It’s been a while. Where are you?” “I’m a farmer. Do you believe that?”
Rooney chuckled. “The number-one cash crop in California?” “Nothing illegal, my friend. I grow filbert trees. I’m an arborist.” “Sounds fancy. Making a living?”
“Occasionally. But that’s beside the point.”
“Not for those of us in perpetual slavery.”
“How is Ruby doing?”
“It’s nice of you to think of Mom.”
“How could I forget the Ambrose Dairy and your mom at the window making soft-serve cones? Dipped in chocolate? Oh my Lord.” Mrs. Ruby Berwick had been a jolly fixture at the famous drive-thru Ambrose Dairy, one of those iconic Los Angeles landmarks with a twelve-foot milk bottle perched on top, where you could get icy bottles of cream and homemade cottage cheese without leaving the car.
“How many times was I over at your mom’s apartment, eating Polish, playing with the pugs?” “You haven’t heard the news. Mom passed on not too long ago.” “I’m really sorry to hear that, pal.”
“I miss her every day. She never hurt a soul.” “What was it?”
“Cancer of the esophagus. Skip it if you can. My brain-dead supervisor keeps saying shit like, ‘It’s for the best.’ People are ignorant. Makes you want to put your fist through a wall.” There was inaudible scratching and scuffling. Rooney’s voice emerged: “…The Bureau’s going through changes, but they’re still after your ass.” “How do you know?” asked Stone.
“Saw your name on some lists.”
“What kind of lists?”
“I don’t play politics; you know that. That’s me, flying below the radar. But you still have supporters in this organization, myself foremost among them, who have always felt you got one raw deal. They trashed your reputation, went around saying you’d gone over — based on what?” He was getting worked up. “They never had proof; they were using you as a scapegoat for their dumb-ass mistakes. Justice was not served by the Justice Department.” “Don’t stress. The intelligence you have provided over the years about my former friends has been very useful.” “That’s something.
Stone, upbeat: “Still have the pugs?”
Rooney might have glanced at the photo poster above the ID machine.
“Brand-new litter. Three girls and a boy. Mom would get a kick out of ’em. They were her ‘grand-dogs.’” Both men were breathing audibly into the phone, cautious, psyching each other out.
“Is that a rooster I hear up on the old farm? Cancel that,” Rooney said quickly. “Don’t say what you don’t need to say.” “I am feeling a little paranoid these days. Got a sixth sense about the Bureau.” “They’re heeeeere!” Rooney could be unbelievably juvenile.
“Up close and personal,” Stone agreed. “Can you do me a favor and check it out?” “Anytime I can say fuck you to management, I am there.” “See what they’ve got going in the Northwest. There’s something else. Soon I’ll be digging up the turquoise. It’s time to move on. You’re entitled to your share.” Rooney choked up. “You got out, but still, after all these years, you remembered?” “You trusted me, so I’m keeping my word. Some things are simple. What are your plans?” “Plans?” Rooney’s voice deflated. “I have nobody left. What would I do?” “Anything you want, buddy.”
Uncertain: “I guess I’d have to take the dogs.” “You could buy a whole kennel.”
“I wish Mom were here.”
“She would want you to be happy.”
“How do we do this?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
There are no records of them talking again. Once they started using the satellite phone, Rooney would take it to the park. It was probably there that he blew the whistle.
Thirty-six
“This is a waste of time. I don’t need to be here.” “How are you feeling? What’s your mood?” “Right now? I’m buzzed, thinking of a million things, like how long we are going to be sitting in this motel. When my partner is coming to get me. How long I can hide out in Portland. How to keep all the balls in the air.” “You’re good at it? Keeping balls in the air?” “Have I dropped any lately that you know about?” “The FBI doesn’t tell me the details of their cases.” “That would be messy.”
“I’m a psychiatrist; I’m hired as an independent contractor. My concern here is only about you — your mental health, how you’re handling the pressures and demands they put you under.” “This is a standard evaluation, right? Like they do for all our undercovers?” “Tell me what’s been going on.”
“I’ve been in deep cover, in an extreme situation, for about three months. I’m living on a Podunk farm with a bunch of violent anarchists who could pop at any minute.” “Stressful?”
“Kind of.”
“How do you handle the stress?”
“By having chest pains, what do you think?” “When was that?”
“About a week ago. I was watching TV.”
“No unusual exertion? No change in medication? Just watching TV?” “Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” “Would this TV watching be normal for someone working undercover?” “Umm. Yes and no. Depends.”
“Do you like TV?”
“Yeah, I love it. I’m addicted to stupid, mind-numbing crap.” “I’m wondering if you use it as a way to deal with stress.” “I don’t watch the shows. I only watch the news.” “You watch the news.”
“There’s really only one story I’m interested in.” “Which is what?”
“It’s a local story. There’s a guy named Herbert Laumann, from the Bureau of Land Management, who was killed recently.” “Yes, he was gunned down in his driveway by some animal rights fanatics. I’m afraid there are a lot of them up here.” “You saw it?”
“It was all over the papers.”
“I did that!”
“You did it?”
“I shot the dude. The whole thing was staged. But it looked real, didn’t it? It was perfect. He and his family are in the witness protection program now. Isn’t that cool?” “This is when you started having chest pains?” “After it was over.”
“So you’re watching the news stories about the so-called murder.” “Obsessively. I have it on tape. All the national coverage, everything from the local stations, and a close-up of the animal rights movement they did on 20/20. My story was the lead.” “You sound proud.”
“It wasn’t easy to pull it off.”
“I’m sure. So you’re watching the tapes, over and over. Are alcohol or drugs involved?” “A little weed. A little beer. That’s how we do it on
the farm.” “Okay, you’re getting high and watching how this man died. The one you supposedly killed.” “In the line of duty.”
“I understand. You say the operation went well?” “Very well.”
“And your superiors are pleased?”
“Yes, because now I’m really tight with the bad guys.” “I’ve got a note here that your communication with the FBI has lagged.” “Who said that?”
“Do you think you’ve been communicating with your office less than usual? Are you feeling withdrawn from the Bureau?” “No, it’s just a hassle. I have to get up early and hide out in the barn, or up in the trees. Right now, there’s not that much to say.” “The important thing, in your view, is that you’ve been initiated into this group — kind of like being a ‘made man’ in the Mafia. And the tapes of the news stories — they’re fascinating to you.” “Because I did such a…a really good job.” “Here. You’re feeling some emotion.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on right now, Ana? Take your time.” “I don’t know why I should be upset. I did a really good job. Does it say in there — Do you know my history?” “What do you mean?”
“Does it say that I once shot a police detective at point-blank range?” “Yes, I know.”
“Okay. That’s all.”
“Do you think about that incident a lot, Ana?” “All the time.”
“Can you describe your thoughts?”
“Like a track playing in the background.” “Do specific images and ideas intrude into your daily activities?” “Yes.”
“How often?”
“All the time.”
“How’s your mood lately?”
“Sad.”
“Ever since this second shooting?”
“No, because I’m bored! The case is going nowhere; there’s nothing to do. We’re waiting for the harvest — we grow hazelnuts — and for the leader of the group to make another move, but all he does is read the fish reports.” “He’s a fisherman?”
“No, he reads the fish counts in the paper. Out loud, every morning. How many salmon went through the fishways at the Bonneville Dam. It’s nuts.” “Well, they’re spawning. Some people think it’s a big deal.” “Like I care.”
“Are you more irritable lately?”
“Obviously. More like numbed out.”
“Remind me — how long ago did you go through critical incident training at the FBI?” “A couple of months after the shooting incident. It’s standard before they let you back to work.” “Did you receive a diagnosis at that time of PTSD?” “Post-traumatic stress disorder? Yeah, we all had it; that’s why we were there.” “I’m curious—”
“You’re curious about a lot of things.” “Did you have follow-up with a psychologist? PTSD usually takes more than a few sessions to improve. But it can improve. Dramatically.” “Well, a woman doctor in Los Angeles evaluated me — I forget her name, but she’s the one who approved me for duty.” “I’m not sure that she did.”
“I’m confused.”
“Let me try to clear up the confusion. You fit every criterion for a diagnosis of PTSD. You’ve had life-threatening trauma, resulting in intense fear and horror. Your current symptoms include mental replay of the trauma, numbing, avoidance, intrusive thoughts…. And all of this has been going on since your evaluation, months ago. Frankly, I can’t see why they put you on this case.” “I fit the profile.”
“Hundreds of other young female FBI agents fit the profile, too. Let me explain. I’m retired from private practice, Ana. I own an office building in downtown Portland and property in Seattle. I have a very nice life and I don’t need the money. I’m an old lefty, and I don’t give a damn if I’m fired by the FBI or if they screw with my tax returns, or whatever. You’re smiling.” “We don’t do that, but go ahead.”
“I do this to keep my hand in, and because I want to be of service. So I can be objective, and say, objectively, that there’s been an egregious error.” “You think they know about the PTSD?”
“Any examining doctor would have recommended that you not serve undercover.” “The SAC and the assistant director approved me.” “Then somewhere along the line, the doctor was overruled.” “Are you saying they put me on this case on purpose? Hoping I would crack?” “I’m strongly suggesting that there has been an error — error, not malice — because I would like to believe that no ethical commander would intentionally send a disabled soldier back into battle.” “Unless he wanted you to fail.”
“That has not been my experience of the Bureau.” “Do you know Peter Abbott?”
“The son of the congressman from Oregon?” “Yes, well, now Peter Abbott is a deputy director of the FBI. My boss believes he is trying to undermine this case. Or at least bend it his way. We don’t know why. It all started out so crystal clear, but now I couldn’t tell you who is running their game on whom. This is exactly where you’re not supposed to be, and it’s pissing me off.” “You’re an excellent foot soldier, Ana, and you have extraordinary qualities of persistence and dedication, but you’re still coping with long-term effects of the shooting incident. It’s like telling someone with pneumonia, ‘Go swim the Atlantic.’ I’m going to recommend that you’re removed from this case.” “No! You can’t do that! I’m fine. I’ll take back everything I said!” “I am deeply concerned about your safety. What would you like me to do?” “I need to talk to my contact agent, Mike Donnato. He’s the only one I trust.” “What do you mean, the only one you can trust?” “I wasn’t feeling crazy before I came here, but I’m sure feeling crazy now. Do all your patients say that? Doctor? That was a joke. Look, I have to go. My partner is meeting me downstairs. I’ll talk to him, and then — can I call you?” “Please.”
“As I said, it will probably be from a hazelnut tree.” “I’ve had stranger phone conferences. Are you okay to wait alone?” “Yes.”
“Let me hear from you.”
The dusky street smells of falafel and pigeons. The city has a faraway look as seen through a fishbowl. Disoriented by the flash-bang of cars and urban walkers, I realize my perceptions are confused. I am trying to understand what the psychiatrist said, but it is hard to think clearly. I am waiting for Donnato. When he arrives, it will make some kind of sense.
“Get in the car,” Mr. Terminate says.
The biker’s wrenchlike fingers close around my arm. A gun presses my ribs. We are in an alley and I don’t know how we got there, but with the full force of his body, he twists my shoulder and pops me like a cork into the open door of the car, where Mountain Man is waiting behind the wheel.
Thirty-seven
When we arrive at the farm, the thermometer on the barn reads 110 degrees — candy-apple red and about to burst. Unlike the dry heat of Los Angeles, a sultry fever rises from the earth, with a smell like roasting barley and manure. It hangs there, baking you to a stupor. The coolest spot in the valley is the hazelnut orchard. When Mr. Terminate and Mountain Man deliver me from Portland, Dick Stone is sitting on a beach chair set in its oasis of shade.
Old-timers say the first nut drops on the first of September. Those late-summer days, each of us on the farm seemed suspended in a kind of waiting. Sara and I would climb the ladders in 106-degree heat to count the dried-up moths in the traps, then spend the rest of the day reading fashion magazines. Nobody cooked anymore. The vegetables were sold, allegedly to help pay for the Big One. Despite the abundance of the garden, we were living on pancakes.
Slammer was so creepily polite to Megan and Stone, I thought one day he’d go berserk and kill them with an ax. But Mom and Dad kept him busy, preparing for the harvest. Inside the steamy shed, Slammer and Stone labored over the homemade nut sorter, a ludicrous contraption of green scrap metal, gas motors and exhaust pipes, rusty conveyor belts, and plywood hammered together with no apparent logic. I was really looking forward to what happened when they turned it on.
In the heat, brushfires kept breaking out among the troops.
“He’s lying,” I heard Slammer whispering to Sara. “He’s flat-out lying when he says the Big One’s coming. It’s just to keep us here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s him. He’s a liar. Don’t defend him, ’ho.”
“I’m not defending him, and don’t you dare call me that. It’s like nobody cares what I’m going through. Nobody cares if I walk out the door into the middle of the freeway.”
“If nobody gives a shit, why don’t you do it?”
Megan and I weren’t getting along, either. To prepare for brittle making, she had me disassemble and clean every part of the industrial stove in the sweltering basement. She kept hauling out giant spoons and candy thermometers, and I dreaded the hellish days and nights when we would have to keep pots of scalding sugar syrup boiling around the clock.
Indications are the harvest will be good, and standing in the full-blown orchard, I can’t help feeling pride in our fake little farming family. Stone’s prudent trimming has created thick new growth. Underneath the leafy canopy is an Alice-in-Wonderland world of cool shadows and secret whisperings. The cries of blue jays pierce the murky gloom, and the smooth orchard floor is chilly as marble.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
Stone avoids my eyes. Instead, he rises, turns his back, and wanders toward a tree, fingering the sprouts at the end of a twig. I wait in silence while he inspects the new green buds.
“How much do you know about the sex life of filberts?” he asks at last.
“Got to be more interesting than mine.”
“It’s one of the stranger perversities of nature. Filberts require cross-pollination from two different plants. Their sexual fulfillment depends on the wind.”